


something good

by lilibetpride



Series: the sound of good omens [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bearded Aziraphale (Good Omens), Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), The Sound of Music References, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, crowley finally wakes up, how many michael and david references can i put in without naming them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26716705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilibetpride/pseuds/lilibetpride
Summary: The angel seemed pleased enough at his answer. “Oh! You shouldn’t have bothered!” he exclaimed, looking at the pastry bag Crowley had completely forgotten about, “Come upstairs, my dear, I’ll put the kettle on! I have so much to tell you!” he gave Crowley one last blinding smile before turning and disappearing up the stairs.He was about to be discorporated, wasn’t he?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: the sound of good omens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1943521
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	something good

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sequel to 'how do you solve a problem like aziraphale?' in the hopes that crowley finally wakes up. in case you don't want to read that crackfic, the basic premise is that gabriel realises aziraphale is basically maria and decides that he needs to learn about earth to get back on the right tracks. also aziraphale has a cat and a beard!

Crowley was falling. 

Not Falling – he’d already done that. 

He was just – falling, and fast. 

He managed to take a look at the sky above him. Stars he made himself, constellations he wove together with his own two hands, thinking of the humans that would watch them from the Garden. 

He closed his eyes, almost tasting the sulfur that awaited him down. 

_Down, down, down._

Aaaand he woke up. 

Someone was talking. He sat up as quick as possible, snapping his fingers to get the sleep mask off his eyes. He looked around and found the source of the noise. 

His alarm, blasting a song that was, surprisingly, introduced to him by Aziraphale. 

(Back when he was busy being Nanny, and the angel went down to South America for a week to do blessings and temptations. He came back with a Malbec –still in Crowley’s apartment, waiting for a special occasion to be opened–, a little replica of the _Cristo Redentor_ – _I didn’t go up_ , he assured Crowley, the promise of going back together hanging in the air between them–, too many keychains –he put them in alphabetical order in his bedroom– and a CD with _Soda Stereo_ ’s greatest hits – _it reminds me of all those bebops you listen to, but you’re better with Spanish than me_ , he said, and Crowley was careful to listen to it in his apartment, only, not wanting to risk it becoming Queen’s Greatest Hits.)

_Oh mi corazón se vuelve delator… Traicionándome…_

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t feel ready _at all_ to face reality. The world outside could be burning for all he cared – and _oh,_ how he cared. 

_Ella lo puede percibir, ya nada puede impedir…_

He scrambled to pick up the phone, wanted to shut Cerati up. He was _sure_ he chose another song for the alarm, but his phone seemed determined to make him think of _him_ as soon as he woke up. 

_Oh mi corazón se vuelve delator…_

The phone finally shut up, showing him it was October 1st, 2020. Oh, right, he’d promised Aziraphale he’d be back by October. 

He closed his eyes, searching for the bright and warm energy he came to associate with Aziraphale. Sure enough, it was in his bookshop, a beacon in the ocean of human souls populating London. 

He went straight to the News app, hoping the pandemic was over, that everything was back to normal. 

It wasn’t. 

(Quarantine was still in place, if only with less restrictions than before. Boris was still being a fucking prick – Crowley would do something about it later, no doubt. And he’d missed the Emmys, which was a shame, few things gave him as much joy as watching people cringe at awful hosts and then want to burn the place to the ground when their favourites didn’t win – he was rooting for Zendaya, of course, but he was certain Aziraphale would be disappointed Olivia Colman lost… If he even knew the Emmys were a thing, which he very much doubted.)

He jumped off the bed, planting himself in front of the mirror. His hair was longer, reaching his shoulders in messy curls. “Ugh, is that stubble?” he mumbled, scratching his chin to feel the roughness. At least his corporeal form didn’t decide to suddenly grow a beard. _It wouldn’t do,_ he decided _, to show up at Aziraphale’s looking that different._

But the stubble – it rather suited him, and at the end of the day he could just miracle it away if Aziraphale didn’t like it. He was too far gone to not admit to himself that he would do it in an instant if his – _the_ angel showed any sign of discomfort at his new appearance. 

He snapped his fingers again, changing his outfit to something more fitting. And, against his better judgement, he put on the black cardigan Aziraphale knit him last autumn. Judge him all you want, but it was both cozy and warm – _and it smelled like him_ – perfect for a chilly and cloudy day like his phone told him it was.

One more snap as he left his room and all the windows in his apartment flew open. The plants trembled as he strode towards them. “When I come back,” he drawled, eyeing them with his well-practiced menacing stare, “I better not see a. single. spot.” he turned back to them before leaving, “Understood?” he asked, to really drive the point home. The plants were still trembling when he walked out of his house. 

(He made a mental note of checking on his neighbour once he was back. The lovely old lady who always took care of his plants when they ultimately disappointed him. Maybe he should get her a gift, say he got stuck outside of London when the quarantine started, she knew he had a godson in Tadfield. Oh, he had to text Adam too, see how he was doing.

Satan, he really was the least demonic demon there ever was, wasn’t he? 

To cement that thought, he decided to miracle himself a face mask. Just in case any human was out and about.)

The Bentley was in the same place as always, untouched and unbothered. As soon as he stepped out of the complex, its engine started roaring, calling for him. Any other person would be moved to tears, but he still had a shred of dignity. 

Freddie’s voice started singing as soon as he got in. 

_Sleeping on the sidewalk, rollin’ on the road_

“Yeah yeah, I get it, ‘m sorry,” he said as soothingly as he could, patting the dashboard, “I’ll take you out for a ride as soon as we can.” 

He started the car, the music changing. 

_When love breaks up, when the dawn light wakes up_

*** * ***

London had considerably less traffic than before lockdown started, but all the same Crowley made sure every light on the way to the bookshop was green. 

_If I could only reach you, if I could make you smile, If I could only reach you_

“Any clue if that pastry shop Aziraphale loves is open?” 

_That would really be a_

“At least for takeaway.” 

_Breakthru!_

The pastry shop was open, and they seemed delighted to have Crowley back. 

“We were worried!” the owner said, clearly smiling behind her face mask, “It was a relief when Mr. Fell dropped back a few weeks ago and assured us you two were just being careful, he even brought us some of his own cakes to try!” 

Crowley raised his eyebrows, taking the bag with the pastries from the owner’s daughter, “Hope you didn’t get food poisoning.” 

They both laughed as if Crowley was joking. 

(He wasn’t, actually, Aziraphale had tried cooking flatbread back in Bethlehem once and it didn’t end up nicely for the Romans – he never admitted to doing it on purpose, and Crowley ended up thinking it was half his own bad baking skills and his dislike for Roman soldiers.)

“He’s very good,” the owner assured him, and her daughter nodded, “if he ever wants to change from being a bookshopper, tell him I’ll accept him with open arms!”

Crowley laughed at that, _as if_. “I’ll let him know,” he said, paying way more than what they charged him.

“You’re an angel, Mr. Crowley!” the woman called after him as he was leaving.

 _You can say that again_ , he thought, waving back with a smirk none of them saw. 

*** * ***

The bookshop was still standing in his usual spot, nothing out of the ordinary. 

Except that Crowley was scared shitless. 

Aziraphale obviously _didn’t want_ Crowley to stay with him during quarantine, or he _would_ have said something, _anything_. It was understandable, of course, since the Apocadidn’t they’d spent virtually every single day together, and after millenia of seeing each other at random intervals… Well, he gets the need to have some alone-time. Especially Aziraphale, who enjoyed being with his books far more than he enjoyed being with Crowley.

( _If he even enjoyed being with Crowley._

No, no, he _did_ enjoy Crowley, that was clear, they risked too much for him to have doubts after thousands and thousands of years together.)

It’d been months, Aziraphale surely would be happy to see him again. 

(Like he’d been in Paris, his whole face lighting up as soon as he turned around to look at him in a dirty cell.)

(Like he’d been in St. James Park, before they got into one of their biggest fights.)

(Like he’d been when Crowley appeared at the End of the World with nothing but a burning car.)

_Play the game, everybody play the game_

“I got it, you’re not being subtle about this.”

_of love_

Crowley took a deep breath, turning off the car and taking the pastry bag with him. At least if Aziraphale started to nag him about quarantine he’d have the food to smooth things over. 

Should he knock? Or just let himself in?

No, he never knocked before, it’d definitely be weird. 

He opened the door. 

Everything was exactly the same as before, as it’d been since Aziraphale decided to open it two centuries ago.

“Angel?” he asked aloud, not daring to move from his spot by the door.

From behind a bookshelf, Aziraphale appeared.

And God – Satan – _Someone_ , it was like he’d stolen the light of the Sun and directed it all towards Crowley with his smile.

“Crowley!”

If he couldn’t move before out of fear, he was now frozen because of – because –

 _Because_.

“Beard?” Crowley heard himself say, his brain clearly too far gone to process what was before him with a fucking coherent thought.

Aziraphale chuckled. Then, he stuck his chin out and brought a hand up to stroke his beard, his eyes twinkling. “Thought it was a good idea at the time! Grow out a beard, bake, those are the things people are doing, aren’t they?”

Crowley managed to nod, the words getting stuck on his throat.

“And you let your hair grow too! I always did like it very much,” Aziraphale continued, as if Crowley wasn’t about to have a heart attack. 

“Yeah,” he said at last, not willing to risk choking with any sentence longer than one sillable. 

The angel seemed pleased enough at his answer. “Oh! You shouldn’t have bothered!” he exclaimed, looking at the pastry bag Crowley had completely forgotten about, “Come upstairs, my dear, I’ll put the kettle on! I have so much to tell you!” he gave Crowley one last blinding smile before turning and disappearing up the stairs. 

He was about to be discorporated, wasn’t he? 

*** * ***

_God,_ _he must think you’re desperate!_

Aziraphale was trying very hard to hide his shaky hands as he passed Crowley his cup. He was an angel of the lord, albeit retired, goddammit! 

He’d been waiting for Crowley to come back for so long, and then all it took was a glimpse at his wavy hair, all long and soft, for him to start giggling like he was a victorian maiden! 

(And he’d been one, attending a wedding in the countryside when Crowley strode in, full of charm and making all the ladies stare in awe. But, as always, he just stood next to Aziraphale and bickered the evening away. The last time they saw each other before they had their big fight in St. James Park.)

“The woman in the shop said you gave her a cake,” Crowley said, after the silence had grown and settled between them.

“I had way too many cakes to not share,” Aziraphale sighed, picking up a chocolate eclair, “and they’re always so nice, aren’t they? Wanted to cheer them up, it’s been hard for everybody.”

 _Not that you would now_ , the ugly part of him wanted to say. The part of him that wanted to keep Crowley all to himself, hide them both inside his bookshop and never go out again. 

( _Maybe_ go out. To the Ritz, for a picnic, to Tadfield. Back to all those places they couldn’t visit together because of their sides.)

Crowley was very clearly trying not to look at him. “Reminds me of 1664, you almost got stuck in Hamburg when they decided to quarantine England.”

Aziraphale finished the eclair and went on to pick up a blueberry muffin. “We’ve seen every plague, and they always get back up,” _wonderful, magnificent humans,_ “a shame we can’t tell them that, it’d raise their spirits.”

“That’s why they got historians, don’t they?” 

“One would suppose so, yes.”

_How do I tell him?_

_Oh, God, he’s going to think I lost my mind._

_He’ll never want to see me again!_

“What’s that noise?”

Aziraphale almost dropped his teacup. But Crowley wasn’t looking at him, his head searching for the source of –

_Oh._

“That must be Hamlet!” 

He stood up, leaving the cup and muffin behind to open the window. In came Hamlet, who was clawing at it so Aziraphale would let him in. He scooped him up and Hamlet instantly melted into his arms, meowing.

“Hamlet?”

Aziraphale scratched the top of the cat’s head, making his way back to the couch with a smile. “Yes! The little guy’s been keeping me company since – oh, dear, how long it’s been? Probably June!”

“And you let him in here? Near your books?”

“He respects my books! He loves to cuddle when I read, don’t you?” _Why are you cooing? He’ll think you’re nuts!_

Crowley didn’t say anything. Aziraphale risked a peek at him, but couldn’t tear his eyes apart.

The demon was frozen, looking at Aziraphale with his mouth open, his face as red as his hair. He felt himself blush too at the intensity of his gaze.

“Are you feeling alright, my dear?”

“Ngk,” Crowley sputtered, “Are you – how – I?”

Hamlet meowed, like he understood Crowley’s mumbling.

“You named him Hamlet?” the demon said at long last.

Aziraphale frowned. “If you must now, I found him napping next to the manuscript Bill gave me, and it seemed fitting.”

That, somehow, got a laugh out of Crowley. “Fitting? Angel, Hamlet is – well, a crazy bastard.”

“He’s a sensitive soul!”

“He _stabbed_ his father-in-law, told Ophelia to fuck off –”

“He was under a lot of stress, his father had been killed!”

“Poor Yorick was more of a father figure to him than Old Hamlet.”

“You say all of this, but I remember very clearly that after we went to that Young Vic production you, in this bookshop, said –”

“– Extremely drunk! –”

“ _Oh, what a consciousness of human potential!_ ”

“I never said that!”

“It was something along those lines, _the point is_ – you love Hamlet!”

“Whatever you say, angel,” Crowley’s smile betrayed him, “at least I didn’t cry and then blessed the entirety of Stratford-upon-Avon .”

“That was certainly difficult to explain upstairs, but I hadn’t seen a Hamlet that good since – since –” 

“Jonathan Pryce?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Hamlet meowed again, agreeing with him, obviously, “not that Heaven could distinguish a good Hamlet from a bad one.”

 _Not ever_ , Aziraphale said to himself when he first met Gabriel, all those months ago, _all of Earth but Hamlet, but the Ritz, but Rome and Paris and St. James and that church_ . Hamlet was – well, _Hamlet_ . Crowley and him had seen almost every version available to them. It was as _theirs_ as it was Bill’s. 

(And after years, Aziraphale knew that Crowley just liked to get him riled up. He knew how to differentiate an _I don’t like this play_ from an _I like this play but I like discussing it with you even more_.)

_I have to tell him, this is the perfect chance, there won’t be another –_

“Aziraphale! Good morning!” 

Crowley was faster than Aziraphale. Mostly because Aziraphale didn’t get startled by the Archangel Gabriel appearing out of thin air in his living room. 

But Crowley had put himself between Aziraphale and Gabriel in an instant, hand raised and ready to – to –

“Crowley! You’re awake!” Gabriel said cheerfully, clearly not reading Crowley’s body language.

“What the fuck –”

Hamlet left Aziraphale’s arms, making his way to Gabriel. Aziraphale put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

_Don’t shake, don’t shake, don’t shake._

“Gabriel, I thought I told you to wait until tomorrow to come,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley turned his head to look at him like he was crazy.

Gabriel nodded. “Yes, you did, but – Raphael wants to come, and Jophiel, and you said before that I have to ask before bringing any more angels here –”

Aziraphale put a hand up, Gabriel fell silent. “Of course, of course, go back and tell them they can drop by this Sunday, alright?”

“What –"

“That’s all, then,” Gabriel said, and then he opened and closed his mouth, _oh no,_ “but before I leave, I wanted to say – well, say sorry to you too, Crowley.”

“What the fuck.”

“Sorry for trying to kill you and Aziraphale, and trying to bring Armageddon, and all the inconveniences that caused you – Beez says sorry, too, but she’s still on the fence as to show up here or not –”

“We can discuss it another day,” Aziraphale assured him.

Crowley’s eyes were about to pop out of his face.

“Mhm, okay, then, goodbye!” Gabriel scratched Hamlet’s head and waved, disappearing with a loud pop.

_Okay, so, now we definitely have to talk._

“Aziraphale, what just happened?”

_There’s no turning back now._

“Remember The Sound of Music?”

“What kind of ques– of course I remember The Sound of Music! What does it have to do with anything?”

“Everything, actually, it’s better if you sit down.”

Surprisingly, Crowley sat down next to Aziraphale, and not even his glasses could lower the impact of his confused stare.

“It seems like – some _decisions_ were taken that went directly against God’s Ineffable Plan and She, well – she let him know with The Sound Of Music.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was, my dear, but it seems that Gabriel realised Maria – you know, Julie Andrews –”

“I know The Sound of Music, angel!”

“Yes, yes, Upstairs now thinks that Maria is a direct – how did he say it – well, _I am_ Maria.”

“Maria. Maria Von Trapp. You are Maria Von Trapp.”

“Without the kids, of course, not that Heaven knows anything of Warlock –”

(Not _without the Captain, but please don’t ask me or I’ll have to tell you that they think you’re the equivalent to Christopher Plummer._ )

“Aziraphale,” Crowley took off his glasses to practically smash his fingers into his eyeballs, “this is a trap.” 

“It’s not a trap, I know.” 

“I shouldn’t’ve slept this long, now look at the mess we’re in –“ 

“Mess? Crowley, I can assure you –“ 

“We have to – I’ll get some Hellfire –“ 

“– Absolutely not!” 

“– Next time that son of a bitch –“ 

“– Now, that kind of language –“ 

“– How could you let this happen? Why didn’t you wake me –?” 

“– Will you just listen to me for one second –“ 

“– Bloody _Sound of Music_ –“

“That’s enough!” Aziraphale exclaimed, raising his voice without really meaning to. Crowley stopped talking, startled at his outburst. “Crowley, I haven’t forgiven them.” 

“But –“ 

“I know what they’ve done, I’ve seen it firsthand, you think I wouldn’t take care?” Aziraphale shook his head, “Humans, as wonderful as they are, taught me a thing or two about trust, about – forgiveness – and Gabriel and Heaven don’t deserve it, yet, because they _don’t understand_ what they were trying to do.” 

“Aziraphale –“ 

“I’m teaching them why we love Earth – why these humans deserve to be valued, deserve to be _saved_ ,” his hands were _definitely_ shaking now, “if they just _understood_ then – then they’ll leave us alone once and for all.” 

Silence fell between them. It’d been too long since anything remotely similar to a fight happened.

(Like in Wessex, over the Arrangement.)

(Like in St. James, over Holy Water.) 

(Like in the bandstand, over trust.)

“You’ve trusted me for so long, I’m asking you to do it one more time,” Aziraphale added, softly, trying to not let it slip that he was scared of the demon leaving him. 

Crowley – _wonderful, magnificent Crowley_ – sighed. 

“I trust you, angel.” 

And maybe it was the sudden rush of adrenaline, 

(But maybe it was the _I miss you_ he didn’t say.) 

(But maybe it was the way his body and mind and soul were on the verge of exploding if he didn’t do something about it.) 

(But maybe it was more than six thousand years of knowing and being known.) 

but Aziraphale’s hand found his way towards Crowley’s. 

(Warm and soft, the roughness he remembered from that night in the bus to London either miracled away or taken care of the human way.)

He felt more than he heard their breaths hitch at the same time. 

“I trust you too, my dear.”

(And how dear he was.) 

“And I missed you, terribly.” 

(And how much he missed him.)

Crowley looked away from their hands. “At least you had _Gabriel_ to keep you company.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale, high on the closeness and the contact, couldn’t help it, and he raised his other hand to touch Crowley’s cheek, guiding his head back towards him, “you must know by now that there’s no one I’d rather be with than you.” 

Crowley quickly turned red again, his eyes looking at some point behind Aziraphale. “I – well – ngk.” 

“No matter how many angels knock on my door – or demons for that matter – at the end of the day is only you who I want to be with.” 

(Only him.) 

“Only you.” 

(Their side.) 

“We’re on our side, after all.” 

“Angel,” Crowley breathed out, “you can’t say those things and expect me to – to – slow down.” 

“It puts things into perspective,” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand reassuringly, “to be stuck in the middle of a pandemic with no one to keep you company but people – and a cat – that will never understand you,” _not Hamlet, not the Ritz, not Rome, not Paris, not St. James, not that church_ , “I’m tired of going slow – tired of waiting,” Crowley, _finally_ , looked at him, and Aziraphale had to fight his body to get the words out, “I want _you_ , my dear, because I – I lo-“ 

And suddenly Crowley was kissing him, stealing the words from his mouth. 

And it was – 

( _Like stars and nebulas and galaxies,_ ) 

It was –

( _Like tulips and roses and peruvian lilies,_ ) 

It was – 

( _Like ‘I gave it away’ and ‘What if we both got it wrong’._ ) 

It was –

 _(Like Hamlet and the Ritz and Rome and Paris and St. James and that church._ ) 

“I love you,” Crowley mumbled against his lips, “ _Aziraphale_.” 

( _Like ‘How long have we been friends’ and ‘Do something or I’ll never talk to you again’._ )

“ _My angel_.” 

( _Like stopping Armageddon and saving the world._ ) 

“I love you,” Aziraphale didn’t know how he was talking and kissing him at the same time but he couldn’t bloody stop, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” 

( _Like six thousand years in the making._ )

They parted, panting like teenagers, their foreheads touching. 

( _Like ‘To the world’._ )

“Sorry I interrupted you,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could only laugh. 

And then they were both laughing. 

“If you interrupt me like that, my love, I don’t think I want to finish a sentence ever again.” 

(He should get a scientist to check out the new shades of red that were appearing on Crowley’s face.)

“Wh– Angel! You can’t say that kind of stuff –“ 

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” 

Hamlet, tired of not being the centre of attention, jumped back on the couch, laying on top of Crowley’s lap with a yawn. 

And Crowley, to Aziraphale’s horror, yawned too. 

“You’re still tired?!” 

Crowley’s laugh sounded almost like a bark. “It was your bastard cat, he gave me the yawn!” 

“He better have!” Aziraphale put up his finger in what he hoped was a menacing gesture but probably just looked like a child pouting, “You’ve been asleep for ages! 

“But now I have something to keep me occupied…” 

“Oh, yes! Remember when we were talking about Hamlet? Well! Those two young fellas made a show about being in quarantine! I was waiting for you to wake up so we could watch it on your Netflick!” 

“ _Netflix_ , angel, and that’s not what I – ngk, yeah, whatever, I’ll set up the telly.” 

“Marvellous!” Aziraphale beamed. 

Before Crowley could leave the couch, however, Aziraphale kissed him again. 

(And again. 

And again, but just a peck!)

Hamlet stayed on the couch with Aziraphale as the demon got up to make his decades old television show him his Netflix account. 

He saw Crowley scratch his stubble and laugh to himself. 

“What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing, just thinking ‘bout how your beard tickles.” 

Aziraphale tried – and failed – to hide his smirk. 

“I can always miracle it away –“ 

“You bastard – don’t you dare!” 

*******

While a cat named after a Danish prince was dreaming, an Archangel was telling another Archangel the exciting news that the demon known as Crowley was _finally_ awake; a retired Principality and a retired Demon were cuddling on a couch, drinking hot cocoa and enjoying quality television; and an even more tired but extremely satisfied God was listening to _The Sound of Music_ , once again and thinking of how did they take _so long to kiss_ when She’d been planning this since the Beginning. 

Quarantine was a weird time for everybody, but there’s always something good. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @lilibetpride to watch me scream about good omens, the crown and how pretty michael sheen is!


End file.
